The Bonds We Share
by SylverSpyder
Summary: When everything has failed, and the Winchester brothers find themselves at odds, will Dean be able to make amends before it's too late? Sammy whump galore, brother fighting/love, & in Chapter 2 a whole new bad ass protective side to Dean and Sam. 2 shot


This has been disclaimed

* * *

><p>The motel door slammed and it wasn't the brisk wind outside underneath the rumbling mass of turbulent storm clouds that did it.<p>

"We need to prepare ourselves?" Dean growled at Sam, mocking him. "Dammit! Tell me Sam, Did it even occur to you once that the man in that room was our Uncle, he damn near raised us and you're all 'What do you think for an epitaph, Dean?'"

Sam fell against the back of the door at his brother's sudden outburst. He had seen it coming. Anyone could have seen it, the way Dean had been tense, his jaw clenched and his body bent over the wheel on the ride from the hospital. Dean was in pain because Bobby was dead.

Sam wanted to do something, anything, but Dean had always been the comforting one. Sam could never have held his big brother after nightmares and known just what to say to make it stop hurting. That was Dean's job. Sam tried, but he never knew what to say. He was useless with people. Even his own brother, the person he would die for, was sometimes a mystery to him. Talking it out was the only method Sam knew, and it was one Dean had never understood.

"Dean, I…" Sam started, his back still pressed against the wood of the door, his head bowed. Long threads of dark brown hair hid his eyes from Dean. He would not cry, not now. His eyes bored into the cheap, worn carpet, the beige so stained over the years that it was almost grey. A single tear fell, leaving a dark mark. Sam pressed his eyes shut.

"Stop it, Sam! I don't care," Dean burst out. "Are you so insensitive? Sometimes I wonder if you ever had a damn soul to begin with!" Sam could hear the sound of Dean's fist impacting with the drywall, hear the slam of Dean's foot against one of the beds.

When Dean had just been hurting Sam, it was okay, Sam knew the words came out of anger, out of the rage and pain from the hole Bobby had left in their lives when he had… when he had died. Now though…

Sam took a step forward and reached for Dean's fist which had fallen, still clenched, to his side.

"Let me see…" Sam staggered back with a gasp, the feeling of Dean's fist impacting with his eye socket leaving his head ringing. For a second his vision danced grey with the force of the blow.

"Don't touch me." Dean growled.

The dim lights of the crappy motel did not flicker. There was no sulfur scent in the air. There was no excuse. No possession, no fugly messing with Dean's brain. There was just anger. Sam was startled, but did not fight back. Dean was dealing the only way he knew how. It was just an accident.

"Look at me, dammit!"

And Dean hit him again. The lights did not flicker. There was no apology in his brother's tone. No accident. Sam ran.

He yanked the door open and pulled it closed behind him. He ignored the fat droplets of rain that began to sprinkle first, then pound against him. The pain was like a ghost. All that was left was the pounding of his feet against the pavement. The frigid storm that had risen went ignored, the gusts of wind beating ineffectually against his body. Sam did the only thing he knew to do. He ran.

As he ran, he was suddenly he assaulted by memories, memories of the times he had run away before, run from hunting, from his father, from Dean…

His feet slowed.

He had deserved it. He had deserved the pain of the blows from Dean. Hell, he deserved worse, and now he had run away again, left Dean hurting. He remembered what Dean had tried to tell him, time and time again.

"I always run," he whispered. The gun he had absentmindedly tucked in his waistband suddenly felt heavy. He pulled it out, the tears in his eyes blurring his view of the ramshackle back alley he had ended up in.

"There's nowhere left to run." Then he felt again the dead weight of the cold metal in his hand, saw the glint of steel through the storm. An electric thrum went through his body and he felt his finger slip, after years of training, onto the trigger of the gun. He raised the gun, slowly, his entire mind numb, unfeeling. He raised his gun to his head. The barrel pressed against his skull.

"I always run."

….

Dean gripped the bottle of whisky. It was supposed to be strictly for medicinal purposes but….

He threw his head back and savored the burn of the alcohol.

He had hit Sammy.

He had hit his little brother.

Twice.

His grip tightened around the bottle.

Sammy had been afraid. He had seen the fear in Sam's eyes as he tried to escape.

Dean stared at the fist-shaped hole in the dull brown wall. He had sworn to protect Sam from the moment he first held his baby brother in his arms.

Bobby was dead.

John Winchester was dead.

And now Dean had driven off the last family he had. The one person he would give his life for, had sold his soul for, was gone. It was Dean's fault. It was always Dean's fault that Sammy left. Dean drove everyone he loved away. He was a broken person. A marionette with its strings cut. Useless.

Sammy didn't deserve to have to put up with a brother like him. Dean threw the finished bottle to the side and picked up his extra. All the beer was already gone.

Taking the whisky, the first aid kit tumbled to the floor. He frowned at it. A bottle of pain relievers fell out. He picked the bottle up, wondering if it would take away the pain he was feeling now, numb him better than the whisky ever could.

Clumsy fingers opened the bottle and poured out the pills, some tumbling to the floor. Dean tossed back the rest with a shot of whisky.

"To you Sam," he toasted.

….

Sam pulled the trigger.

Once.

Twice.

No scent of gunpowder, no flash of pain. No Heaven . No Hell. No Death.

He glanced down at the gun and mechanically slid out the clip. Empty.

He laughed mirthlessly. Of course. Of course he was such a screw-up he couldn't even commit suicide correctly. He tossed the clip to the side and stumbled to the side, tucking the weapon back into his jeans, now soaked by the storm.

Outside of the alley, he found himself next to a glowing sign for a bar. Staggering past a few men smoking outside, he pushed open the door and entered the hazy room.

The bar was crowded, noisy with the thrum of low voices and the twang of the guitar player that stood on a small stage in the back. Men lounged at low tables, cigarettes dangling from mouth filled with aged, yellow teeth. The smack of the cue against a ball could be heard by the crowded pool tables and cards littered the room, men glaring at their opponents over their hands and a beer. Sam pressed his way to the bar, knocking against tables and earning glares. He threw himself down at the bar.

"A drink. Anything. Strongest you've got," he barked, throwing his head down on his hands. Water dripped from his hair in streams.

"You looking for trouble? You look like you've had about enough already." The bartender's voice was deep and hoarse, from years of shouting over the room's clamor.

"I'm sober as can be. Now you have to fix that. Strongest you've got. Bring two."

….

Dean lurched towards the car.

"Hey," he greeted it. "You're all I got left." He scowled. "No more whisky." He opened the driver's side door and threw himself down in the seat. His foot pressed the gas pedal and nothing happened. He frowned.

"Keys."

He opened the door and threw up on the asphalt, the stench of alcohol filling his nostrils. When he was done, he straightened up.

"Where? Oh, keys."

…

Sam stared at the dull amber liquid sloshing inside the bottom of the once full bottle, his shoulders knotted and tense. The low neon lighting of the bar cast strange, flickering shadows across the crowded, smoky room. The wood of the bar was worn smooth to the touch after years of use. Sam ran one hand over the wet ring where he had set his drink, watching the reflections of light on the water scatter. The world seemed to be spinning, or maybe it was just him. How many drinks had he had?

He took another swig, his mind numbed to the burn of alcohol, his hands shaking. He realized he couldn't see out of one eye. The idea made him laugh. He lifted one hand to his face only to find it swollen and sensitive.

"Oh yeah," he chuckled. "Dean hit me. Bobby's dead, so Dean hit me."

Sam frowned at the bottle.

"Dean hit me." He repeated, then, on a whim, he chucked the near-empty bottle at the wall behind the bar. The sound of the glass shattering seemed muted, like he was listening from a distance, like his whole life was far away.

"I always run," he muttered. Someone grabbed his arms. He couldn't seem to make his tongue move to protest as they pulled him off his stool. Strong arms dragged him out of the warm glow of the bar and through the doors, retreating from the smoky air inside. His stomach protested the movement.

"What's goin on?" He mumbled.

A hoarse laugh issued forth and he felt someone drag him to the side and drop him on the damp ground. He shivered, shivers becoming the harsh, uncontrollable shaking of violent retching.

He wasn't sure when "Dean hit me" changed to "Dean." The name was like a mantra.

"Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean, Dean,-" he whimpered.

Callused hands reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and his cell phone. He heard rustling and an annoyed growl. Then a hard boot collided with his side, and another. Something cracked.

Sam laughed. It was cold, but the cold made him numb. A fist slammed into his kidney, followed by another boot. The laughter grew, interspersed with his brother's name.

Eventually the hands went away, the boots disappeared, and Sam was left lying in the alley.

…..

Dean was out of it, and the fact that he was totally aware that he was messed up seemed oddly funny. He giggled. The keys didn't seem to want to go into any one of the three or four places he saw. He didn't remember having six hands either.

"Where's the key go?" He growled. His chest felt unusually tight and breathing was inexplicably becoming difficult.

He flipped open his phone and pressed a number.

"Bobby will know." Dean paused, his eyebrows furrowing. "Bobby is dead. He was shot in the head." Dean shrugged, embarrassed to find a few tears running down his face.

"What the hell, Sammy? I'm leaking." He glanced at the passenger seat. No one was there. "Sammy?"

A smile lit up Dean's face. "Sam will know where the key goes." He pressed a different number on his speed dial and hit send with all six shaking hands.

…..

Sam wasn't sure how long he lay there. Once he got his breath back, the laughter turned to coughing. He felt liquid warm splashing out from between his lips. The cold was unbearable, seeping into his limbs. Sometimes he would open his eyes, and the light would have changed in the second he blinked. A few times he heard laughter, and once, shouting. A hand slid down his face, fingers sliding down, groping. He spit bloody saliva at its owner and the hand retreated.

Twice someone found him and the process started all over again, this time with cursing. He would smile through his laughter. He had no wallet left to steal.

…

Dean woke up from where he'd passed out, propped against the steering wheel, his phone in hand. God, he felt like hell. His phone!

Dean remembered he'd been trying to call Sammy. His head hurt too much to get him to try to figure out why, but that was reason enough to call his brother.

After a few rings, someone picked up.

"Sammy?"

"Who the hell is this? I told you to stop calling!" The unfamiliar voice coming from his phone made Dean jump then glance around.

"It's Dean. What the hell are you doing with my brother's phone?" Dean's mind felt suddenly clear, the headache and the hang over suddenly trivial.

"Oh," laughter rang out over the line. "So you're who the little bastard kept calling for. Stupid ass was drunk out of his mind. He kept crying for you when I hit him. Big guy didn't even seem to notice the boot against his ribs or the knife in his side. 'Dean' was all he'd say. He was pleading for your help. Or maybe," the voice chuckled. "Maybe he thought it was you. I never touched his face, you know. Was that little bit of handiwork yours? It's been a day now, a full day before you even cared enough to find out what happened to your Sammy."

"Don't call him that!" Dean shouted. The man ignored him.

"I wonder if Sammy's dead yet?"

Dean swore as the line went silent.

…

Eventually, the light grew brighter, more annoying. The light brought some warmth though, accompanied by a hangover indistinguishable from the rest of his pain. He forced himself to his feet. Something warm ran down his side.

Would Dean even take him back? He didn't deserve it. He had run off again. He teetered through the streets at random. People avoided looking at him, stepping away when he passed.

Was it that obvious? Was there a sign on his forehead that read 'Spawn of Satan, Apocalypse bringer, bad brother, bad son, bad person'?

The light in the sky eventually began to fade, and darkness approached. Sam's mind was still scattered by pain and now every breath was a wheeze. He was so cold.

Eventually he found himself in front of a familiar door. He tried to raise a hand to knock -who was inside again?- but his hand didn't want to obey him. His body fell against the doorframe with a thump.

"Dean," he whimpered. "I'm sorry, Dean. Sorry. Dean. Dean, Dean, Dean-"

His eyes slid shut. He was so tired. So tired…..

…

Dean strode from the car as fast as his legs would carry him. He was still weak from whatever he had done last night. Or, he considered the man on the phone's words. The day before yesterday? What happened?

A sudden image sprung into his mind of his fist impacting with Sam's face. He froze. He remembered the fear in Sam's eyes. He glanced down at his knuckles, noting the bruising, the swelling.

"No!"

He was running now, towards the motel room, to get his weapons, to get something to help him find Sam. He couldn't let his Sammy go. He couldn't let him die. The man's words ran through his head. Dean swallowed down bile at the thought of his brother dying, thinking it was Dean's foot that kicked him, thinking it was Dean's knife buried in his side….

Dean was halfway through the parking lot when he saw it, the crumpled figure propped against the door to his room, the barely recognizable figure covered in dirt and bloodstains. He swallowed hard at the sight of the swollen, disfigured face.

Is that your handiwork?

He was running. Then Sammy was in his arms and-Dammit!- he was leaking again and somehow his phone was in his hand and his finger was dialing the numbers and he was yelling for help. Time was distorted and everything was so wrong. Sammy wasn't moving.

Sammy wasn't breathing.

His hands were on Sammy's chest, forcing the breath from his lungs.

"Dammit, breath! Comeback to me. Sammy!"

There was a hitching noise and then coughing. Tears poured down Dean's face as he heard the most wonderful sound he had ever heard.

"It's Sam."

The voice was faint, then Sam fell like deadweight in Dean's arms, but he was breathing. Dean was shaking with relief, as the sun began to slip behind the horizon and a crowd began to gather around them in the parking lot, panicked voices unable to break into Dean's mind when he was focused on one thing, his Sammy.

….

Sam's eyes slid open and his hand twitched against the crisp sheets. The air smelled of antiseptic.

Hospital, his mind supplied.

"Dean?" He groaned. He couldn't hear him, couldn't hear his brother. He struggled to open his eyes. "Dean?"

"He's not here, honey," the voice was female, his eyes squinted up at the nurse.

He felt himself begin to panic. "Dean!" He tried to thrash his arm about, to find his brother, but the heavy weight of a cast anchored it down. Dean wasn't there. Sam felt a growing surge of guilt and worry. He must have done something. What if Dean was hurt?

The nurse saw him panicking. "He would have stayed, but I made him go home. The poor boy's been at your side for days. He looked worse than you, dear boy. After he collapsed, I forced him to go get some rest."

Sam frowned. He wasn't begrudging his brother any rest, but Dean would normally bring a cot or sleep in a chair or something! Dean wouldn't just leave him. He felt his breathing quicken again and with it came a jolt of pain. He moaned.

"There, there, Dear." The nurse pressed the pump for more morphine. Sam's eyes slid shut. The nurse gently brushed his long hair off his forehead. "I'm sure he'll be here by the time you wake up again. He's the most devoted young man I've ever met." The blond smiled affectionately down at her patient, feeling herself blush. Dean was definitely devoted, and he was exceedingly handsome, too. Madeleine knew he'd be back, and the very thought left her with butterflies. She had seen the way he looked after Sam, seen the kind of affection in his eyes that few men would ever have, let alone show. She was looking forward to his return.

…

Dean stepped on the gas, his eyes darting to the gun that lay on the seat beside him. Sam's seat. The nurse had told him to get some rest, but he couldn't. Not until this was over.

He smirked at the thought of the nurse. What was her name? Madeleine. Of course Sam would be the one lucky enough to end up in the one hospital that actually had hot nurses and then be unlucky enough to be unconscious and unable to appreciate them properly. Not that Sam would anyways. At least soulless Sam hadn't been such a prude. Dean felt a worried scowl settle back over his features. It was true that it had been three days and Sam was still unconscious. Dean felt worry begin to grow in the pit of his stomach, gnawing at him. It had been three days and Sam still hadn't woken up. The doctors were beginning to worry about when he would. And Dean hated it. Hated that Sam might not wake up. Hated that he was a bit relieved that he wouldn't have to find out whether he wanted Dean to be there when he woke up, whether he wanted Dean there at all. Dean's grip tightened around the wheel. He glanced back at Sam's gun.

He was going to find the monster that hurt Sam, and he was going to kill him like the monster that he was.

….

Dean had tracked Sam's movements to a bar a few miles away from their motel room. Pulling his car outside the place, he wondered if the grey cracked walls and flickering neon sign looked more appealing at night. He slid out of the car. Time for some answers.

…..

Dean stared at the security tapes of the alley outside the bar. He watched as his brother, his blood, pressed a gun to his own temple. Dean's blood froze, a choked sort of gasp forcing its way out of his throat. Nonononononononononono…

Sammy wouldn't.

Dean felt the tension in his chest ease as Sammy dropped the gun.

His Sammy wouldn't.

….

The man stared at Dean, not fully comprehending his own danger.

"I asked if you knew this man?"


End file.
